Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald Takes in what Lake Erie can send her, And the
(Gordon Lightfoot) iron boats go as the mariners all know With the
gales of November remembered.
The legend lives on from the chippewa on down Of
the big lake they called "Gitche Gumee." The In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed, In
lake, it is said, never gives up her dead When the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral. The church bell
the skies of November turn gloomy With a load of chimed till it rang twenty-nine times For each
iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more Than the man on the Edmund Fitzgerald. The legend lives
Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty. That good ship on from the Chippewa on down Of the big lake
and crew was a bone to be chewed When the gales they call "Gitche Gumee." Superior, they said,
of November came early. never gives up her dead When the gales of
November come early!
The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin As the
big freighters go, it was bigger than most With
a crew and good captain well seasoned Concluding
some terms with a couple of steel firms When
they left fully loaded for Cleveland And later
that night when the ship's bell rang Could it be
the north wind they'd been feelin'?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing And every man
knew, as the captain did too, T'was the witch of
November come stealin'. The dawn came late and
the breakfast had to wait When the gales of
November came slashin'. When afternoon came it
was freezin' rain In the face of a hurricane
west wind.
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck
sayin'. "Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya." At
seven PM a main hatchway caved in, he said
"Fellas, it's been good t'know ya" The captain
wired in he had water comin' in And the good
ship and crew was in peril. And later that night
when its lights went outta sight Came the wreck
of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours? The
searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have
capsized; May have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings In the rooms of
her ice-water mansion. Old Michigan steams like
a young man's dreams; The islands and bays are
for sportsmen. And farther below Lake Ontario